Quaestio Memoria
by ElocinMuse
Summary: A series of little vignettes surrounding the ending for the S4 finale. Author's note inside.
1. Ghost

**Author's Note: Jumpin' on the finale band wagon, of course. How could I not. But instead of writing one big dealio, I'll just be writing a few oneshots to it here and there. This will be the "Quaestio Memoria" series. The vignettes can either have everything to do with each other, or nothing to do with each other. They can be standalones, or not. They will be in no particular order. **

* * *

**GHOST**

"Hey there, studly," Angela greets with a generous and welcoming smile.

The man before her shifts from one foot to another, a hesitant smile quirking his lips. She's still a little disenchanted that he doesn't flirt back anymore. Though of course it had never meant anything beyond playful teasing, and it's not his fault. "Hi," he says quietly.

"How are we feeling today?" Small talk it is again, today, too.

"Headache still, but not as bad as before. I feel good, though, thank you."

"Did you drive?"

"Um, no. Walked. From… from the Royal Diner."

It's still so bizarre to observe this man. A man who had been the embodiment of conversational at times, and how different he's become from their memories of him. She hopes they all don't forget as well. "Wasn't expecting you today. I didn't presume you to be driving yet, especially."

"Oh. Should I not have come?"

He's well again. But he isn't. He isn't what they knew. Angela's determined will smoothes over the frown lines dipping her brow and she forces her features into a smile that's genuine and sweet. "You're more than welcome here, Booth. Just a pleasant surprise." This isn't a lie. "What brings you here?"

His face falls a little, and she thinks those brown eyes of his can become no more dejected. He purses his lips, taking an interest in his shoes, so she waits in silence. "She hasn't been by lately," he says finally, at long last. He fidgets a little, but picks his head back up, trying to appear indifferent. But his face is an open book. "I think I upset her again."

Of course even Booth With No Memory would be first to blame himself for the way the world suffers.

She offers him a kind smile and shakes her head. "You haven't at all, sweetie. She's been… you know, busy with work. She gets distracted, you don't remember." He doesn't buy into her lie, no matter how lost he is, and she's glad she doesn't have to keep making excuses. "She's in her office now, why don't you say hello?" she encourages.

He smiles, and it's a sight indeed. If only those once spirited eyes were what they used to be. "Thanks, Angela."

* * *

As soon as he knocks on her office door, he feels a little more sure of himself. Her presence does something to him that he can't explain. But it makes him curious.

"Hey, Bren," he greets eagerly.

That hero worship he'd displayed around her has never been vanquished. Instinctively though, she's frowning before she can smother the expression, but turns at his voice from her desk. "Hello, Booth." She's glad to see him, always. Always hoping for something new, but today is not advantageous. Not after her second and most recent breakdown up on the catwalk near the lounge.

He deflates a little at her obvious reluctance to his presence, and she's immediately regretting her offhanded tone. "Sorry to bother you, you know, I just… well…" he opens his mouth again to speak, but nothing comes out.

The silence isn't awkward, but it's painful. This timid mad is not her Boo—_BOOTH_. It isn't _Booth_.

She needs him to smile. "You missed me, I think." She tries to wink, and it must amuse him, because he's laughing.

"Well… kind of, yeah. Yes. Um, I did. _Do_ miss you. I hope I'm not being annoying." He also hopes he was far more articulate than this, once upon a time.

Her smile fades a little, softens. "Of course not."

He nods, becoming a little more serious. "It's easier. You know?" At her quizzical look, he elaborates. "Around you. I'm not… I don't feel so lost."

Her stomach flips, and then flops. Something clenches around her heart, too, and she's sending him a more watery smile. Booth has seen her cry many times, but she's terrified of shedding a drop of emotion in front of this man. "I'm glad my presence is beneficial to your recovery."

She's making light again, but he holds on to the gravity, despite that that's what's been throwing him asunder lately. "It is," he repeats, agrees. His voice is soft. "Beneficial. It really is, Bren."

But she's wincing now, turning away from him, and he's alarmed at the sharp set to her lips. He's said something wrong already. Will he ever get this dance right?

"What?" he asks, a concerned arch to his brow. Was he not only repeating what she'd just said? "I've said something wrong. You're upset."

"Stop calling me that," she whispers. It's out before she can swallow it back down.

She seems almost surprised as he at her response. Usually when something like this would occur, she would say nothing. Assure him she was fine, and instruct him to move on. Encourage him that this wasn't about her, never will be.

It takes but a moment, and he realizes she meant her name. "Why?" he asks. She sighs, but it isn't tired or oozing irritation. Instead, it's anguish, and she almost looks as though she's collapsing in on herself right at her work desk. She mumbles something then, but he doesn't catch it. "I'm sorry?"

"Bones," she says finally, a little louder. But the volume only makes her voice crack and the single syllable fractures like a shard of glass. Her head bows, and he's frustrated with himself, because he's brought this sadness on her again. "You call me _Bones_."

He remembers that. She'd only told him of it once before, while he was still in the hospital. "I know," he acknowledges hesitantly. "You said that. It's just…"

What? He doesn't know. Doesn't know what to say to bring that smile back to her face. He's too afraid of hurting her again, still. He has to become better at this difficult game, because watching her in pain like this is utter agony.

So, he gives up the fight. For now.

"I'm trying," he says. And he is.

She chews on her bottom lip for a moment before those blue eyes find him, hold him steady. And that smile is back – a shadow of what it once was, but it's something. "I know," she nods. A grateful luminescence ignites the crystal flecks in her eyes.

The moment becomes heavy, and fraught with meaning. But he doesn't know what that _means_. So he grins a little, eager to impress her. "I remembered my favorite pie today," he says. He's almost afraid that he's bragging, but he thinks it's something to be proud of.

And apparently it is, because her smile widens. "Good," she nods. Meaning it.

There's still a trace of hurt in those eyes he can read (but doesn't know _why_, because she's practically a stranger), and he knows why that is. He hasn't remembered her yet.

His eyes show her nothing but apology. But there's hope. She feels it, and calls on that faith she's always had in him when everything else has brought her crashing down.

He may indeed be a burden to her now, but he has never stopped making her fly.


	2. Take

**TAKE**

"You've been stealing my fries."

They sit together, at their table, in the Diner. It's always like this, but it's not the same anymore. She takes him here quite often, he seems to enjoy it. The waitress always flirts with him, and he finds it hysterical. Brennan doesn't know how one can't recall their own attractiveness.

Today's been quiet, though, for whatever reason. They'd forced out small conversations here and there over lunch, but everything has been off. _Of course _it's been off, but today even more so. Over the past three days, he'd made no progress whatsoever. Nothing. It's all been a little discouraging.

They trade turns staring out the window with almost sad, outlying expressions, or making eyes at their food.

But he feels something jump in his middle when he catches her straying hand out of his peripheral. His brow knits just a little, but he doesn't voice his tangled thoughts. They're rolling and crashing like waves during a storm, yet he's become as still as the lighthouse itself.

It's two full minutes later that he catches sight of her pilfering fingers again. He realizes then that she must have been doing it all during lunch. Except by the far-away look in her eyes, she doesn't appear to even realize her actions.

So he says it.

But not to her, not really. For his brow is still furrowed in puzzlement and a weight settles more heavily in his midsection. It isn't entirely unpleasant, though, which is even more curious.

She blinks out of her daze, staring down in surprise at the two potato slivers between her fingers. Suddenly embarrassment and guilt washes over her face and her wide eyes fly to his in apology. But instead of being annoyed or amused, he seems fascinated.

He hasn't looked away from her hand, or the fries she'd been ready to snatch.

"Sorry." She says it anyway, bemused. "I didn't realize…"

But he's looking to her now in cautious expectancy. Revelation, even. "You do that a lot, don't you?" he almost whispers. "Didn't you?" he amends.

Her jaw is slack, and she's in awe. The silence lasts for a full minute before she can force her head to nod. "Yes," she can barely more than breathe the word.

And he's smiling. To her, it's like the sun breaking through the clouds on an otherwise cloudy day. The brown she loves is shining and sparkling, and it's breathtaking. She feels a lifting in her chest she hasn't felt since seeing him wake up after four days of being lost to coma.

Her breath hitches, her voice catches, but she's speaking quickly. Babbling, almost. "It used to aggravate you. But I think you stopped protesting around the same time I did when you called me…"

His smile widens. Hers does the same, and everything is just delirious and she knows now what Cloud Nine means.

"Bones," he says. Finishes her sentence, just like always.

It's not perfect yet, but it feels like it now.

This will not be a race, but a marathon.


	3. Flood

**FLOOD**

She's been contemplating the dig for about a week. She knows she can't (won't) go, but the idea is painfully tempting, nonetheless. She won't go to sleep – she knows this, too. It's storming outside; she's always been irrationally anxious about them. It's strange. She's never had a reason to be afraid.

But the distant thunder echoes in her chest, her being, and makes her shudder. The rain caresses the windows of her apartment, unable to reach her and lamenting the fact. The wind cries of it. The panes are slick and pebbled with precipitation. Another night surrounded by loneliness seems to mark her destiny.

She doesn't know, yet. Doesn't know how his night has been crashed, while hers has been dwindling into lethargy. How he's been bombarded by metaphorical lightning bolts to conquer even the steady storm gathering outside her walls. How tonight will mark their history and future.

* * *

It had been a photograph. An odd catalyst, since he'd been going through book after book, page after page, of them for _weeks_ with little success. It had been of her, of course. In her office, arms akimbo – probably berating him for sneaking in a snapshot during working hours. In the background of the photo, however, had been a small pink blur accompanying another assortment of baubles on her desk.

He'd recognized it. Almost immediately.

Jasper the Pig. A gift he'd given her, she'd told him. He knew that, and when she'd informed him of the sweet porker, he'd felt nothing at the time. But now... an almost nagging ache burrows deeply into his stomach. Invisible claws penetrating his heart.

"_How do you slaughter a pig?"_

The voice, her voice, arrives unbidden in his thoughts. He's on fire all at once, but he's trembling.

Just like a domino effect, it arrives, unfolds. Suddenly, he can't breathe.

"_Vince McVicker, the pig farmer." _

His own voice, now. Sarcastic, tense.

"_Our plan, once we set up… most likely in Florida… was to bring you down."_ Another voice. He can't place it. But it deepens, almost to a growl. _"Your father is a hard man, Joy." _

Immediately, he sees her image. It floods his mind, but suddenly… it's not the visage of a stranger he's befriended. She's in tears, falling apart. In his arms. She's breaking as he fights to hold her together.

"_My name is _Brennan_. I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan. I work at the Jeffersonian Institute. I'm a forensic anthropologist. I specialize in identif… in identifying… in identifying people when nobody knows who they are. My father was a science teacher, my mother was a bookkeeper. My brother… I have a brother. I'm Dr. _Temperance_ Brennan."_

He gasps, and it's a sob. Tears fill his eyes, but he can breathe.

* * *

The knock, desperate, on her door startles her. It's almost a full minute before she pulls out of her daze and looks away from the slab of wood to learn the time. It's well after midnight. She knows who it is well before she answers the door, but it never registers until she's pulling it back to find him standing there.

Her throat catches and her eyes widen a fraction at the sight of him. He's soaked to the bone, lips a dim shade of blue. He's shivering, teeth chattering. Dark hair sticking in damp spikes. She wants to beg him why he hadn't thought to drive, for goodness sake! But she recalls hazily that he's not supposed to be driving just yet. But that doesn't matter. There's something in his eyes.

Something burning, something _alive_, that keeps her rooted to the spot with her voice locked somewhere far away. Suddenly, she's aware of the reason for his visit. Her heart plummets, somersaults, flips. Her jaw falls slack. Her slender fingers dig into the wood of the door, leaving tiny crescents in the surface. She'll never have to fear the storm again.

He hadn't had time for a phone call. He'd needed her to hear in person. This thing he _needs_ her to know.

He remembers his pounding footsteps, vaguely. The downpour beating against his face, the wind chilling him to the core as he'd raced for her doorstep. He remembers everything.

The way his lungs burned, his legs protested. Every muscle aching and on fire.

He can't say anything except what he's come here to say.

Breathless.

"I know who you are."


End file.
